


It’s the little things that count.

by YurikoSPN



Series: It's all about Supernatural! [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bobby needs more love, Father Figures, Father-Surrogate!Child relationship, Fluff, Other, reader has no specified gender
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-15
Updated: 2016-02-15
Packaged: 2018-05-20 21:23:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6025561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YurikoSPN/pseuds/YurikoSPN
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Reader is Bobby’s surrogate child ever since their parents died during a case he was working on with Rufus Turner. Although they can’t visit Bobby to celebrate Father’s Day because they’re studying overseas, they choose to make it clear how much they appreciate the grumpy, old hunter’s efforts to take care of them for so long.</p>
<p>Based on the following prompt by Supernatural Imagines: <a href="http://supernaturalimagine.tumblr.com/post/109915802200">“Imagine seeing Bobby as a father-figure, so when Father's Day comes around, you send him a little card and a gift, nothing big, but he is still incredibly touched.”</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	It’s the little things that count.

**Author's Note:**

> My tumblr: [YurikoSPN](http://yurikospn.tumblr.com/)

The day at Bobby's starts at 3:26 a.m. to an old wall phone with a sharpie-written **‘FBI’** label ringing away into the night.

It is dark and freezing outside. Thin droplets of rain pitapat cyclically on the rooftop, and regardless of the rustiness of his joints and the beginnings of lumbar rheumatism twinging at his lower back, Bobby is quick to pick up the call before the Winchester brothers – especially Sam, who’s knocked out cold on the couch thanks to the power of painkillers – so much as flutter their eyelids and fall into deep slumber again. 

On the other side of the line, a very polite, _very tired_ lady from Grand Forks County morgue asks Bobby – or rather, _Mr. Tom Willis, FBI Deputy Director_ – to confirm the credentials of agent William McAdams, one of Garth’s most famous aliases. 

_‘Sure thing evil never sleeps, but three thirty in the morning, son? **Really?!** ’_, Bobby thinks to himself, unsure if the eccentric hunter is either an unrecognized prodigy or a straight-up idiot; although that’s of little concern at the time. 

Absentmindedly, the aged hunter puts the phone back in place with a frown, his gaze drifting to Sam, who has stitches patching up half of his chest under layers of plaid and whose leg is broken due to his and Dean’s last encounter with a Djinn. 

Much to Dean’s distaste, from what Bobby can tell, he’s in no better condition than his brother: covered in bruises and skin-deep wounds from head to toe, asleep on a beaten chair beside Sam. But, at least, he gets by reasonably well and even uses his spare time to refurbish Baby and go on trips to the grocery store while Bobby takes care of his younger sibling. 

Bobby knows that’s Dean’s only way to cope with what had happened – the famous Winchester _‘suck it up and deal with it’_ philosophy. He knows that each time Sam gets hurt, Dean suffers and blames himself twice as hard as the previous incident, hiding in the shell he crafted after years of putting up the brave little soldier front that comes with being John Winchester’s elder son. 

He also knows damn well he’s done his best to convince Dean he doesn’t have to undergo through it alone, but there’s only so much Bobby can do if Dean himself is not willing to receive help. 

A minute or two goes by like that, with Bobby watching over the two young hunters from the doorframe, his incised fatherly drive lamenting that such nice kids never had a chance to live the apple-pie life they deserve. That is, until he figures his night of sleep is pretty much ruined anyway, pours himself a nice glass of scotch and strolls, exhausted, to the kitchen to fix the mess last week’s mail has become. 

Among his favorite letters are bills of all kinds, a car finance ad, more bills, Dean’s monthly copy of _Busty Asian Babes_ that he insists to get delivered at Bobby’s, life insurance ads, home insurance ads, and a small serving of even more ads on the side. 

…What a waste of time **and** paper. 

It’s only once he’s done tossing three quarters of correspondence in the nearest garbage can that he notices a small, rectangular white box previously hidden underneath the ads galore, its neatly-written addressing unmistakably sent from _‘Y/N L/N Singer’_ to _‘Robert Steven Singer’_. 

_**Singer.**_

No, he didn’t read it wrong. 

You really, _really_ wrote _Y/N L/N **Singer**_ on the package. 

The voluntary adoption of his last name by someone else almost gives him a heart attack on the spot. And it’s suddenly a good thing that the boys crashing at his place are still fast asleep and unable to presence Bobby’s spare moment of sentimentality. Otherwise, Dean would never let him live this down without months of mockery, sideway glances and lopsided smirks. _The little bastard._

“Goddamn it, kid. What’re you up to this time?” 

Hesitant and slightly wavering, his rough hands hover over the pristine box for what seems to be ages until he gathers his guts and rips through the wrappings as quietly and carefully as possible.

Inside the package, Bobby finds two bottles of authentic German beer, a porcelain mug full of mustache engravings and _‘Best Dad Ever’_ written in loopy letters, accompanied by a simple card, with the same mustache design and a message inscribed in your slightly curvy handwriting: 

_‘To Bobby,_

_____Anyone can be a father, but it takes someone special like you to be a real Dad._  
_Thanks for taking care of me all these years, even when I’m far away. I promise next time I’ll give you lots of hugs and a better gift!_  
_Happy Father’s Day!_

_Love,_

_Y/N._  
_**Proud to be a Singer.** ’_

He rereads the message ten times over. 

He stares lovingly at your beaming face looking back at him in the picture attached to the card, surrounded by the bright colorfulness of a typical European flower field. 

And it’s with teary eyes and a smile on his lips that he’s finally at peace with himself.

He’s become a better man than his father would ever be. 


End file.
